


The Vase

by WritingsOfAHobbit



Series: Thranduil/Reader Stories [5]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 17:35:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3258470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingsOfAHobbit/pseuds/WritingsOfAHobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the imagine/prompt: Imagine being King Thranduil’s maid and one day he is so utterly furious at something you did wrong, but then afterwards goes and comforts you to realise that after all those years with you around, he’s madly in love with you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Vase

Being the maid to the King of Mirkwood was not easy. It means long days, little sleep and occasionally skipped meals. You see the King at his best, when he is filled with joy and happiness, and you see him at his worst, when anger flares in his eyes and he cannot settle.

For the most part, you’re quite good at your job. You hold the upper hand over the servants as you have served the King the longest. They do the small jobs you cannot and will not do and hardly question you. But this means that you take responsibility of them and sometimes have to dig them out of trouble.

There’s no one there to dig you out of trouble.

You  _need_ someone to dig you out of trouble.

You stand, eyes wide and hands shaking, staring at the broken vase in front of you. The water has pooled on the floor, the flowers scattered around the room, but it is the vase that you are most worried about.

The vase that is older than you.

Older than the King.

Older than the both of you combined.

The vase that now lies in pieces on the floor.

 _No_.

You feel sick. The floor needs to open up and swallow you.

The irrational side of your brain pipes up, telling you to run. To find a horse and get as far away from this place as possible. The rational side of your brain tells you to hide the evidence first.

“What is this?”

Your heart all but stops at the sound of the King’s voice. “My Lord!” you spin to face him, hoping that you can hide the vase with your body.

It is a foolish hope.

“ _What is this_?” the King repeats, though the growing anger in his eyes is indication that he knows  _exactly_ what  _this_ is.

“My Lord, I am  _so sorry_! I don’t know-“

“No, you don’t.” the King pushes past you, robes billowing behind him. He kneels down, the hem of the robe soaking up the water, and picks up a small piece of the broken vase. “You don’t know how important this vase was to me. You don’t know the memories that it was part of. You don’t know how to do your job properly. You don’t know  _anything_.”

“My Lord, I am sorry. It slipped and-“

“And  _nothing_.” The King snaps. “You have destroyed one of the few things I hold dear in this forsaken wood.” The King’s voice is getting lower and his words are more pronounced. He’s moving past anger and into rage, bypassing the scorn and hate that you can usually cope with.

“I am truly sorry, m-“

“ _Sorry_?” the King rises suddenly, spinning to face you. The anger on his face is so severe that you date a step back. “ _’Sorry_ ’ will not fix this. It means  _nothing._ ”

“My Lord, I didn’t-“

“Get out.”

You blink. “My L-“

“I said. Get.  _Out._ ” The King practically snarls and you turn, running from the room.

You make it back to your rooms with no trouble. You passed one or two of the servants on the way, but the look on your face kept them away. You felt as though you might actually be sick. Violently and repeatedly sick until there was nothing left inside of you.

Shame, mortification and guilt flood your body as you lock the door, a symbol of your anguish. Never have you locked your door. Nor, for that matter, has anyone else that you know.

The King was beyond angry. The last time you had seen him so angry he had taken the heads of seven practice mannequins in one swing. Absentmindedly your hand lightly traces across your neck. You’re quite fond of your head.

With shaking hands you make your way into the bathroom, splashing your face with cold water.

You’re going to need to find a new job. The King might not have said that you’ve been fired, but he was certainly thinking it. No elf would dare hire someone that the King had fired. You’d have to make your way somewhere else. Lothlórien, perhaps. The woodland there would be far more comforting that the openness of Rivendell. Yes, Lothlórien it will be.

You’re just deciding whether or not you should start packing now, when there is a knock on your door. Your first thought is that it’s a guard, come to drag you before the King. The knocking comes again and you decide that it can’t be a guard. They knock once then let themselves in. It could be another servant, but they wouldn’t dare risk the wrath of the King. The knocking comes again, harder and more impatient this time. Your friends believe you to be working and that exhausts the list of potential visitors.

The caller is in the process of knocking for a fourth time when you unlock the door. The knocking stops abruptly and you crack the door open.

 _Damn_.

“My Lord.” You drop into the deepest curtsey you can manage, keeping a hand on the handle to keep you balanced. If he decides to push past you then you will most likely fall over.

“May I come in?”

It is the sort of question that the King asks where the answer you give must be the one he wants to hear. More often than not he doesn’t require an answer, but acts along the course of the answer he wanted to hear. Still, he waits for you to stand and step aside, giving him permission to enter.

You want to apologise for the vase, but fear that bringing up the piece of ill-fated pottery would only invoke his fury.

“I have come to apologise.”

You freeze, the door partially closed. You face the King with a confused expression. “You came to apologise?”

The King nods and, when it becomes apparent that you’ve forgotten about the door, reaches around you to close it. You hold your breath as he momentarily invades your space. The last thing you need is to be distracted by his rather warm, enticing aroma.

“You did not mean to break the vase.” The King steps away from you and walks a little way into the room. “It is not in your nature to be clumsy.”

It’s not in elvish nature at all, but you decide to not point that out.

“I am truly sorry for it, My Lord.”

The King waves you off. “The vase is broken and there is no amount of apologising that will fix it.”

You frown lightly. “Forgive me, My Lord, but I was under the impression that the vase was important to you.”

The King turns to face you and you quickly drop your gaze. “I have upset you.” He states.

“No, My Lord.”

“And now you lie to me.” The King takes a few steps towards you.

You consider denying it, but that would be another lie.

“Since when do you not hold my gaze?” the King questions, coming to a halt in front of you. “Tell me the truth. Have I upset you?”

“It is my-“

“Have I upset you?”

You take a breath. “Yes, My Lord.”

The King reaches out and gently takes you hand, lifting it and pressing your knuckles lightly against his forehead. “Forgive me.”

You mind stalls for a few seconds, before hurrying to catch up. “Of course, My Lord, though you have done nothing that requires forgiveness. It is I that asks you for forgiveness.”

“I raised my voice at you.” The King insists. “I have made you unhappy. I saw fear in your eyes and that causes me pain beyond imagination.” He hasn’t released your hand. “If you want forgiveness for breaking a vase, then you can have it, but my words did more harm than anything you have ever done.”

The King steps closer, until he is so close that you’re almost touching. If the two of you breathed in at the same time your chests would touch.

Now  _there’s_ a thought to set your mind racing.

The King’s hand comes up to lightly trace your cheek and you’re  _sure_ that you are blushing. “Your companionship matters more to me than any vase. The thought that I may lose you over broken pottery…” the King trails off with a broken laugh.

“You won’t lose me.” You say quietly, though you didn’t realise he cared so much about you leaving.

“I am glad.” The King leans forwards to rest his forehead lightly against yours. “I care for you, Mellon. I would see you happy here.”

 _Friend_. You cannot recall him ever addressing you as such, nor can you ever recall him showing you such affection before.

“If you wish for me to stay, then that will make me happy.” You smile and your hand moves cautiously up to hold the one that cups your face.

The King smiles and presses a kiss to your temple, before completely crushing the rules of propriety and social class by drawing you into an embrace.


End file.
